


Generation Landslide (The Quick Brown Fox Two-Step)

by poisontaster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: kamikazeremix, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-12
Updated: 2009-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 12:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It is not flesh and blood but the heart which makes us fathers and sons.  ~Johann Schiller</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Generation Landslide (The Quick Brown Fox Two-Step)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Generation Landslide](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1605) by Tabaqui. 



_If you don't believe in ghosts, you've never been to a family reunion. ~Ashleigh Brilliant_

 

My mom is a fox.

No, seriously. That's not a euphemism. My mom is a seven-tailed, second generation, red fox. A kitsune, to be technical. That may seem pretty funny to you, but I assure you, it's serious business to me.

And my dad...

Well.

I've never met my dad, but I imagine that most kids would be proud to have a man like Dean Winchester as their papa. Listen in the right places, ask the right folks, you can find out everything you want to know about Dean Winchester. He's smart and handsome and brave. He's fearless, fierce and slippery as an eel. Dean Winchester is a hero: he saves people's lives, he kills monsters.

Only one problem with that.

I'm his kid and I'm a monster.

***

"Why're you dogging us, kid?"

Clearly, I lack my mom's fox-like stealthiness.

Along with just about everything else.

"I'm not following you!" Even with both of them on me, I start wiggling…least until cool metal wedges itself under my jawline, cranking my head back into the brick of the wall behind me. Then I'm _real still_ , because I don't have to see it's a gun to know it's a gun, apparently. "And I'm not a kid!"

My dad snorts and the other guy, the brother—my uncle—jabs the gun deeper into the muscle, makes the bone creak. It sounds poetic if it's not your jaw you're talking about.

"You must think we're dumber than we are pretty," my dad says, which is a pretty lame line—almost as bad as the ones he was laying on the waitress inside the diner—but he's an old guy and when guys get old, they fail to realize that they just don't have game anymore. "You've been on our asses for two days straight, _kid_ and if you don't give us a damn good reason in the next couple seconds…"

Sam Winchester—my uncle—clicks the hammer back. Everything in my body runs south for the border and it's a real effort to not piss myself. Great first impression there, right?

It seems so fucking typical that I come all this way looking for my dad, only to maybe get my damn fool head blown off two seconds after actually meeting the guy.

"I'm your kid!" I yelp, no time to come up with anything smoother, and my voice sounding like it never broke. "I'm your kid!"

They don't look like they believe me. Which I can't exactly blame them for, because yeah. It sounds sketchy all over. It just happens to also be true.

"Look—" I say, and I'm starting to get pissed because Mr. Dean Winchester was more than happy to stick his unwrapped dick in my mom—and _ewewbrainbleach_ \--but now he doesn't want to face up to the consequences. Well, he's damn well gonna. He's going to face me.

"Fifteen years ago," I say. "Oregon. Half-Japanese girl—Yukiko. Yukiko Hisoka. You gave her this bracelet." And I jingle my wrist, half-crushed by my dad's grip on it. "Silver ID bracelet with your name on it."

"Is _that_ what happened—?" Sam starts and my dad's head whips sideways in a glare.

"Show me the bracelet," my dad says and Sam lets go of my hand long enough for me to shoot my jacket cuff back and shake the bracelet down around the bone. Once upon a time, the word _Dean_ was incised in the silver deep enough that I could scratch my child-sized fingernail in the grooves in the dark, tracing out that name, the name of my quasi-mythical father. Nowadays, the letters are shadows. My mom would probably make something of that; she's always into metaphors and symbolism and crap like that.

The letters are still clear enough to read, though.

All at once, my dad—Dean—is walking away, wiping his mouth like he tastes something bad and the gun scrapes across my jaw and then disappears as Sam goes after him, "Dean! Dean!"

Well. That went better than I thought.

***

"So where's your mom?"

They say keep one eye open, but I must have blinked, because next thing I know, Dean Winchester's squatting on his hunkers across from me. I shove up quick, scrubbing the sleep out of my eyes and not sure if I should be scared or not. "Not here," I say slowly.

Truthfully, I don't know how much I want to tell the guy. I'm feeling dumb for looking him up in the first place, not that I want to go home with my tail—metaphorical, thank you!—between my legs.

Winchester—because I'm not thinking of him as my dad—snorts and looks sideways. "Yeah, I figured that part out, hotshot. But you're like…what? Fifteen?"

"Good math skills there, Pops. That take you all day?" I can't figure out what to do with my body, like I've suddenly got too many bones or something. I settle on cross-legged, my hands tucked between my legs to hide how they're shaking. He startled me, the fucker. I jerk my chin at him: "What're you doing here?"

"You shouldn't be out here on your own," Winchester says, ignoring the question and the insult alike.

"Yeah, well, what's a little orphan boy to do, no parents to look after him?"

"You're not an orphan."

"Yeah? What am I, then?"

"You're not an orphan," Winchester insists again. "I…you can't just spring that on a guy and expect…" He wipes his hand over his mouth again and scratches the back of his neck. "Look, I could've handled that better, okay?"

"Fuckin' A right," I mutter.

"Hey. Language." He points a finger at me. "You aren't so big I can't…" A particularly constipated look crosses his face. "Jesus, I sound just like my dad."

"At least you sound like _someone's_ dad."

A muscle ticks in his jaw and for a minute, neither one of us say anything. Then, rushing across the words like it hurts him to say them: "Look, you know I didn't know about you, right? Your mom… I haven't even spoken to her since…since then. And I would've come if she'd told me, I would've. But I didn't know."

It's suddenly harder to meet his eyes than it was a second ago. My throat feels hot and strange as I nod and stare at the dirt between his boots.

Winchester sighs and straightens up, his knees clicking like a pair of dice as he does so. "Okay, then," he says, and holds his hand out to me. "C'mon."

"Where are we going?" I don't take his hand, standing up. I don't need to take his hand; I can stand up on my own, thank you. But I fall in with him anyway, walking out. Any place is better than this busted up little house, I guess.

"I don't know. Thought maybe we could get a cuppa coffee or something. You…are old enough to drink coffee, right?" Winchester looks sidelong at me.

"God, you really suck at this, don't you?"

"What are you talking about? I'm _awesome_!"

The truth is that I never had coffee before, but I'm not about to tell him that.

"So…uh. As I remember, your mom kinda had that…" Winchester makes a plumy little wave with his hand that I figure out is supposed to be a tail. Oh, God. "You got something like that?"

"No," I insist. " _No._ I…no. That's not. I'm not like that. I don't have that."

"Oh. Heh. Good, I guess." Winchester's old clunker is parked in the yard, empty. I wonder where he ditched his brother and why. "Kinda hard to hide."

"Yeah, no worries there. Tail-free." I resist the urge to waggle my ass at him. "So…you're not expecting me to call you Dad, are you?"

Winchester scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah… Why don't we just start out with Dean, okay? I'm… Christ, I'm only thirty, you know?"

"You were _fifteen?_ " I stare at him, openmouthed. _I'm_ fifteen. "Dude, use a condom!"

"Yeah, I'll take it under advisement." Winchester rolls his eyes, pretty blasé for a guy whose fifteen-year old mistake just showed up to shake the family tree. We stare at each other across the car's hood.

"So…are you gonna tell me your name at some point or should I just keep calling you 'kid'?"

Oh. Heh. Yeah. "Jamie," I say finally, after a moment's thought. "Just call me Jamie."

***

"So this. This is my brother Sam. I'm sure you remember him from the restaurant."

"Yeah." I rub the bruise under my jaw, look Sam in the eyes, even though I have to tip my head back to do it. Sure didn't get his gene pool. "I remember."

"Sorry about that." Sam looks embarrassed, shoving his fists in his pockets and hunching his shoulders. "It's…uh. Kind of a tense time."

"The family business." I nod wisely and Dean gives me a look.

"You know about that?"

I shrug. "I hear things."

"Yeah? What do you hear?"

"I don't know. Stuff." I scuff my foot on the pavement. This isn't what I thought it'd be like, finding my dad. I don't remember any more what I thought it would be like.

"That's descriptive."

"Dean—" Sam sounds worried.

"Cas said he was okay," Dean says shortly. "So he's okay. It's okay."

"Who's Cas?"

Sam says, "An angel," at the same time Dean says, "A friend."

Dean huffs and glares at Sam. "He's not important," Dean says finally.

"But you were checking up on me. Unbelievable." Had I really let myself believe—for one second—that maybe…? "Fuck this, I'm outta here."

"Hold on there, Sunny Jim." Dean grabs onto my jacket.

"No, fuck you. Let go of me." I try to jerk away, but he's strong. He's really strong. _"Let go of me!"_

"I'll let go when you _calm down_." He shakes me, once and then lets go. I go slamming back into the storefront, stumbling to get my feet back under me. Dean wipes across his face, dragging it out of shape. "God _damn_ it, Jamie. Can you cut me a break, huh? Just one, little break?"

"Why should I?" I hate myself for it, but I stay half-curled up around my stomach, not sure he's not going to deck me.

"Because I'm your dad! Okay, I'm not a great dad—wasn't there for your first step or your first word or teach you how to ride a bike or some shit, but I'm what you've got." He shrugs. "I'm—we're—all you've got."

I hate this little kid feeling in my chest, this part of me that's built him up so high, so much—MY DAD, in big capital letters. And instead of the godlike being I wanted, I got this bow-legged redneck who can barely talk to me. But he's right…he's all I've got.

"Who's Cas?" I ask again, straightening up, even as I keep my side to him.

"Oh, you'll meet Cas," Dean promises, a glint in his eyes when he says it. "Probably at the least convenient moment. Be taking a piss and suddenly, _blam!_ Angel." Dean comes closer and slings an arm around my shoulder, pulling me into his side. "Cas, he's one of the good ones, though."

"I thought all angels were supposed to be good." I say doubtfully, as he pulls me along. "And aren't they kind of a Judeo-Christian construct, anyway?"

Sam laughs, sounding choked, but like it's still funny. "Yeah," he says, rubbing one shoulder thoughtfully. "We might have some things to tell you, about angels."

"Angels?" I say again, still not sure what game they're playing. "Real angels."

"Man, I need some java if we're gonna get into this," Dean says. "The high octane. C'mon."

"Hey, Da—Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm fifteen, you know." It's weird. We walk at exactly the same pace.

"Yeah, I think we covered the math part earlier. So?"

"I'm just saying…I'm probably going to hate you a lot. It's kind of my job, you know."

Dean glances at Sam, who smiles; a secret smile, just between the two of them. "Get in line, kid."

I sigh. "It's _Jamie._ "

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much to my very dear friends: beanside, mona1347 and nilchance, who hold my hand on a daily basis. Deep thanks to my co-mod, girlguidejones for being willing to do this craziness with me a second year, for her endless faith in me and her tireless Pom-Poms of Doom.


End file.
